


When He's Down

by FriendlyFrat_Boy



Category: Courage the Cowardly Dog
Genre: Angst, Barabara is a bad cook, Barbara actually has some character for once, Bipolar Disorder, Crying, Dancing, Emotionless Fred, F/M, Fluff, Forgiveness, Fred isn't, Hair-related drama(of course), Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Multiple Personalities, Pet Names, Regret, Rhyming, Rough hair-care, Singing, Sort Of, of course, or so he thinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyFrat_Boy/pseuds/FriendlyFrat_Boy
Summary: Freaky Fred and Barbara met in college and it was love at first sight. Time has passed since, and their love has only deepened.Until now, Barbara has only seen Fred in a state of hypomania. And now, she must deal with a depressive episode. Will they be able to get through this together, or will this destroy everything they've built up together? Did Fred love Barbara for her hair, or for who she truly was?Will Barbara escape uncut, or will Fred get... naughty-?
Relationships: Barbara/Fred (Courage the Cowardly Dog)
Kudos: 4





	1. Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fall/gifts).



> Yo! This is the first chapter, and I'll post these back-to-back real quick, so... Yup. Also, cross-posted to fanfiction, but eh.

She met him one bright sunny afternoon on campus. She was just walking by him, and yet, she could feel it instantly. They were only walking past each other for a mere second, but the second she was within reach of him, she could feel their heartbeats syncing up, becoming one, for but a brief moment, and yet it felt eternal, and then it was gone, leaving behind only a fluttering of the eyelids, a backwards glance, and a longing.

That was when their eyes met. He had the greenest, brightest eyes she had ever seen, like shining little marbles of jade. And the way he looked down and up and then back to where he was going told her everything she needed to know. He had captured her soul in those evergreen eyes of his, and she had done the same to him.

The next time they met, it was in a far more formal setting: Barbara was singing at a local Valborg festival, and when she stood up there, singing about her loneliness to an audience that didn't take her seriously, she saw him, standing there amongst the crowd, a bit out of place in his too-nice tie and cardigan. He was smiling lazily, his eyes a bit sunken in, with his golden hair all askew in a way that made Barbara's heart flutter shyly. He must have noticed the way she looked at him, since he suddenly looked down at something, his smile growing sheepish and his tan cheeks turning rosy. Barbara was momentarily distracted by the man, but even though she wasn't paying much attention to her song anymore, she could tell it wasn't any worse because of his presence. If anything, it was actually better. She was singing to someone.

After the little concert was all said and done and she had taken her bows(of course, paying the closest attention of all to the blonde in the front), she was thrilled to notice the man approaching her. He seemed a bit nervous, his back hunched and his brows furrowed, but his smile still lingered. Barbara could relate to that emotion immensely. As the young adult came near, Barbara couldn't help but unconsciously tug at her dress, attempting to straighten it out, fingers running through her long, braided hair. It wasn't all twisted up, was it?

"You sang beautifully," the boy remarked. There it was. His voice. It was a wonderful baritone, deep and humming, powerful yet kind. "Th-, thank you," Barbara replied, shyly playing with her long golden locks, her raspberry lips forming into a slight smile whilst her cheeks lit up at the praise. "I'm Fred, by the way," Fred introduced himself, placing one hand on his chest. His fingernails were strangely elongated and pointed, like claws, and even though they were a strange, corpsely blue, Barbara doubted they were painted. The man was an enigma. "I'm Barbara," Barbara returned, stretching out her hand to shake his. Fred stared at the hand for a moment, obviously confused, before scoffing at himself and grasping it. His hand was cold and stale, but even though Barbara could feel he had the strength to easily crush her hand, he restrained himself, holding her dainty little hand carefully and gently.

And during the entirety of the night, they talked, about everything and nothing, until the bonfire that was the trademark of the Valborg festivities had died out and the glowing embers no longer danced in the air like little wisps. They promised to meet once more at another time, and they did. And after only a few more meetings, a few more moments gazing into each others eyes, they confessed, and were finally a pair. It had almost been too easy, too simple. But it was lovely. Barbara was always fair, and Fred was always happy. He always seemed to be smiling in some way, weather sheepishly or lovingly or teasingly, except…

Until he wasn't.

It had been a day like any other, really. The sun peeked in through the window and kissed Barbara softly on the cheek, rousing her awake. Normally, what awoke her in the morning were the soft, unspoken affections of her love, Fred, pecking her on the cheek and snuggling up to her, teasingly playing with her hair, but this morning, nothing of the such occured. Groggily, she awakened, her uncombed hair falling on her face, preventing any form of sight. With a little huff, she removed the hair, genuinely considering maybe getting it cut down to size. But, then again, she had always had it this way, and she hadn't ever cut it before, so that would have to wait a bit.

Leaning over, she checked to see if Fred was awake. He was usually the first one up, always being dressed and ready when the sun had risen, never oversleeping. Atleast, that's how it had been for the past couple of weeks. Obviously, that statement did not apply to today, for some reason. And he was awake. But not quite.

It was almost as if there was a film over his eyes, making them look all hazy and glazed over. They were sunken in, like little jade marbles rolling about loosely in the eyeholes of a skull. His cheeks were sunken in as well, and the smile that usually adorned his face was entirely gone, replaced with a tired, uncaring line. His hair was uncharacteristically messy, and although he liked to keep it on the loose end, this was just too much. It looked as if he hadn't showered in five days, which couldn't be the case, since not only had he taken a shower just yesterday, but the amount of time and care he put into his hair easily rivalled Barbara herself, whose hair took hours just to wash. So to see it this dim and grease-covered was, altogether, surreal.

The green eyes slowly rolled over to peer up at Barbara, a single flimmer of recognition fleeting through them. "Is everything alright?..." Barbara asked, her slim eyebrows furrowing together in worry. Fred seemed to focus on her, trying to make her head out to be more than a shape, a mere image of colours and patterns, and more as an actual person, with eyes and hair and lips to kiss. However, instead of the usual everything's-alright smile he'd always give her when things were tough, he instead sneered at her. A malicious twist of the lips, a contemptfull rising of the eyebrow. "What's it to you?" he croaked at her, his voice hoarse and unforgiving. Barbara gasped. He had never said anything like this before, never before had he even so much as used a harsh tone with her. Something was obviously wrong.

"...Have you been crying?" Johanna asked, reaching out to touch his chin. Indeed, not only were his eyes more sunken in than usual, but they were all red and puffy, as if he had been lying awake all night, weeping over some unknown sorrow. Fred slapped her hand away, his face twisting in a strange grimace of fear, anger, and… shame. He was ashamed. Why was he ashamed? Fred averted his gaze. "...I didn't want you to worry…" Fred mumbled as he turned over in bed to look away from her, as if he didn't want to see what kind of effect this would have on her. The effect in question was pity. He simply didn't want her to pity him.

"Babykins-," "Don't-, don't call me that," Fred hissed, cutting off Barbara. Barbara didn't reply. She simply stared at his back. She should have been angry, she knew that. And yet, she wasn't. She didn't feel a single ounce of irritation at this man, because she loved him, and she knew what he needed now was not anger; it was love. So, Barbara smiled, and got out of bed. She could feel Fred's burning gaze bore into her back and the longing this gaze contained. But she didn't look back.

She wasn't gone for long. Within only a few minutes, agonizing, painful minutes for Fred, she returned, her frilly hair all up in a big, knotted-up ball. It always got like that in the morning, and it would always take her at least an hour to brush it all out, but after she and Fred fell in love and moved in together, he had been brushing it out, and with some love and magic barbering, he had been able to sort it all out and make it nice and pretty in just a few minutes. Something told Barbara he wouldn't be doing that today, but nevertheless. In her dainty little pale hands was a small, ornate red cup, from which a thick vapur could be seen rising. Whatever liquid was kept in there, it was, in all likelihood, very hot.

Fred realized what it was immediately. Barbara quickly made her way to his side of the bed(the side that faced the window which, in turn, faced the campus). Fred scrunched his nose at her, his broad mouth twisting into a scowl. But before he could say anything, Barbara practically shoved the steaming hot cup into his hands. It was warm milk. The soothing, sweet aroma billowed, entrancing Fred instantly. His tired eyes turned down, and although he didn't really feel like drinking it, hell, he didn't feel like drinking anything, he brought the liquid to his lips and took a sip. It was sweet, but not too sweet, and a bit thicker than simply milk would be. Barbara knew he liked to have some cream in it. She knew a lot of things about him that other people didn't. Even things he didn't know about himself.

Turning his gaze to the warmly smiling Barbara, Fred couldn't help but blush slightly. She really was too kind. "Th-, thank you," Fred mumbled, feeling quite flustered at the gesture. Looking back up, Fred quickly noticed Barbara had turned around, which made his heart sink. Was she leaving again? Maybe she'd leave forever, and take her hair with her? But, in direct contrast to these thoughts, she quickly sat down, plopping down onto the side of the ploofy bed Fred was still occupying. "H-, hey!-" Fred loudly protested, anger flaring up into his voice. "If… if you don't want to do anything today, that's okay, but… can I atleast do it for you?..." Barbara pleaded, tears welling up in her eyes. "I-, I-," Fred stammered. Had he really been so cold, so callous, enough to make her cry?...

He wasn't taking out his sorrows on her, was he?... God, he always did this! Couldn't he just be nice and flowery to people? Why did he have to hurt everybody close to him?... Was he doomed to be alone, stuffed into some institution for looneys who like to eat crayons and bang their heads?! Fred felt like tearing out his hair, and he really would have, if she wasn't there. If she wasn't looking at him with those big, fawning eyes, her nose all flushed, her lips downturned. Fred furrowed his brows and frowned. Not at her, of course, but at the situation. He was used to just kind of… sit these days out. Just let them pass. The hunger would eventually rouse his common sense anyways, so what use was there in actually doing anything? "I… okay, but just… leave me be, okay?..." Fred pleaded back, his green eyes full of an unspeakable sadness, lined with remorse. Barbara smiled. A light, airy kind of "of course" smile. She nodded, and wiped her tears, that little smile still on her raspberry lips. She really was quite pretty.

"What is it?" Barbara inquired, noticing his searching gaze. "No, it's just-," Fred stammered, his hands flying up in front of him defensively before grabbing hold of the covers and dragging them up to his cheeks, covering his little frown. "I was just thinking about how p-, pretty you were…" Fred muttered into the soft covers, barely able to look at her, his face growing red and flushed. Before he could even notice that she had moved, she had cupped his cheeks in her stretched out hands, squishing them together slightly. Fred was taken back, and was thusly unable to react when she leaned in, her pale, rosy-cheeked face growing closer. "Honeybunch, so are you," she cooed, giving him a little peck on the nose before leaning back and releasing her hold on his cheeks. Confused, but pleasantly so, Fred was left in a stupor of sorts. "You-, h-, hey!-" he tried to say, but he simply couldn't sound mad, a little smile creeping its way onto his lips. Barbara giggled softly and stood up, her golden locks still all twisted up and higgledy-piggledy in a way that set Fred's passionate barber's heart ablaze. Well, it would have. Right now, he couldn't much care for anything. Barbara's supple scent of cherries and rye still lingered in the air, and for some reason, it was the only thing he could think of.


	2. Noon

Fred laid in bed for the remainder of the morning, unable and unwilling to even try to get up. Barbara came and went, sometimes gently rocking him to attempt to get him out of the bed, at other times simply giving him a peck on the cheek to cheer him up. It didn't help much, and by early noon, he was still curled up in bed. The contents of his thoughts were pretty one-note, constantly switching between agonizing over how he treated Barbara and being in absolute bliss over how she had responded. She really did love him. Usually, these mullings wouldn't really go anywhere, but every now and then, he'd just start crying and he wouldn't know why. Barbara always seemed to notice this though, since she would always come in with a napkin to wipe away the tears. It was a sweet gesture, but it could never wipe away the sorrows hidden underneath.

Eventually, noon came, and Barbara knew she had to do something. Sure, he could just mull around in bed all day, but… it honestly wouldn't do him any good. He'd feel good for now, yes, but if he could maybe put his thoughts to something constructive, something he actually likes doing… Barbara scratched at her neck, her hand brushing against some of her bushy hair. Ah. Of course. Barbara knew just what to do.

Fred squinted at the harsh rays of sunlight shining in through the window at him. He wanted to ask Barbara to close the blinders, but he didn't want to be a bother, not when considering how he'd been this morning. He could also get out of bed and do it himself, but… no. He didn't want to do that. So, instead, he rolled over and ignored the sun and the growing feeling that he should be doing something, anything but laying in bed, but… he couldn't. No, he simply couldn't bother. What did it matter anyways? Whether he actually did anything or not didn't matter, did it? Any hair he cut would just grow back again, wouldn't it? So what was the use of cutting it at-,

Then he heard it. A soft, melodic tone trailing through the air like a dancing little pixie. Barbara was humming. He couldn't recognize the tune or the melody, but if felt good. The sun didn't feel quite so bright and his heart didn't seem quite so heavy. It felt good. Fred gave a heartfelt sigh and leaned back, his head sinking into the soft pillow. There was a clattering of pans from the kitchen, and Fred realized why she was humming: she was cooking lunch. More often than not, Fred would be the one to cook lunch and dinner, all the savoury meals, whilst Barbara took care of all the sweeter ones. Before Fred met Barbara, he really didn't like sweet foods. It's not that he didn't have access to them, it's just that he never saw the point of them. All it does is give you an unnecessary amount of calories to work off. Really, if anything, they're derogatory in nature.

That was, until Barbara. She awakened a sweet-tooth he didn't know he had with sugarcakes and wiener breads and god-knows-what. He always feared she'd give him a heart-attack one day, but miraculously, he was still as slim and fit as he'd always been, not a single hole in sight. Then again, even if he did get a hole, could his teeth really get any worse than they already were? Somehow, he doubted that. But, when he recalled that time she had insisted on cooking them a romantic spaghetti bolognese to share, well… he really was considering getting out of bed to cook whatever she was making himself. But, then again, she might have learnt something from his cooking, right? He had learnt quite a lot from her, after all, and he had no doubts he could(almost) rival her baking. But, she still had the upper hand in theoretics.

Then again, that sudden smell of burning something was certainly not quelling his desire to do, well, something, atleast. Within mere minutes, Barbara emerged into the room, holding a little wooden tray. Setting it down on the bed, Fred quickly decided that he probably should have gotten up. It was probably supposed to have been some sort of pasta, but somehow, she had overcooked it to the point where it had all become one single glob of mush, parts of which were burnt to charcoal. There was a light drizzling of some sort of purple sauce atop it, and something told Fred that this was pure cyanide in terms of potency. Beside the two plates were a pair of glasses containing orange juice(Fred assumed), and a pair of blueberry muffins.

"I know it's not as good as you would make it, but I hope you'll at least try it," Barbara practically begged, a wry smile twisting her lips, her eyes hopeless and desolate.

Looking at his fellow depressee, Fred couldn't help but chuckle, which, in turn, caused Barbara to sniffle a little. It might have been a laugh or it might have been a cry - Fred wasn't sure. Whichever it was, Fred decided that he couldn't possibly reject those fawning eyes. Sticking a fork into the amorphous blob of pasta goop, Fred extracted a small glob, the purple sauce decidedly absent, and hesitantly placed it within his virgin mouth. Instantly, he was met with an explosion of flavours and sensations, none of which were good. Somehow, small flakes of burnt pasta had inched its way into every single part of the pastaglob, infecting the entire thing with an ashen, dry taste that simply couldn't be created by any ordinary means. Had she used hellfire to cook this? On top of that, it was all flavoured extremely strangely, with coriander and tarragon and oregano, and… was that paprika? And cinnamon?

Spitting the blob out, Fred attempted to cleanse his pallet with the orange juice. Only, it wasn't orange juice. It was grapefruit. Which wasn't really that different, and plus, Fred loved grapefruit, but it was still a surprise Fred wasn't ready for. But the ashen, poisonous taste simply wouldn't be washed out. Desperately, Fred grabbed a hold of one of the blueberry muffins, the one he assumed was his, and scarfed it down, nearly swallowing it whole. That seemed to do the trick, since his tonsils were no longer burning for their sins. His eyes were starting to tear up though, which was likely because of the physical pain of the ordeal. Turning his eyes to his blonde-haired lover, he found her shivering and on the verge of crying.

"Darling-," Fred started, but was stopped by her pale hand suddenly covering his mouth. "Don't-, don't say anything. I know it's bad, and you could do much better, and I should be able to do much better, but… please. Here-" Barbara handed him the other blueberry muffin with a strained smile, releasing her hand from his mouth, allowing him to speak. Fred slowly grabbed the soft sweet, feeling a bit ashamed over eating her lunch. But he couldn't refuse. Taking a bite of the muffin, Fred could feel his self-loathing grow stronger. This was wrong. He shouldn't be lying about in bed, eating his lover's food! His eyes grew blurry and before he knew it, tears were streaming down his cheeks. All he did was cry. He was such a waste-,

Leaning forward, Barbara hugged him. It was a warm, gentle kind of embrace, the kind that a mother would give her son when he had scraped a knee, the kind that said "it'll be alright" without any words. Fred was hesitant at first, his whole body trembling in confusion. Should he return it? Should he say something? What was-, and then she started shaking. It was soft at first, unnoticeable, but soon the shaking grew into a powerful shudder, trailing from the toes to the chest to the throat, where it emerged as an unmistakable sob. Burying her face into his unsuspecting shoulder, she weeped. Uncertain, almost like a child, Fred covered her small back with his arms and hands, completing the embrace. Barbara sniffled and removed her face from his shoulder to briefly meet his gaze. She had the most sky-blue eyes he had ever seen, neither like ice nor like the sea, but instead a serene, calm, cloud-less sky. She blinked twice before leaning in closer to his face. He wanted to pull back, to escape the situation, but something in him told him not to.


	3. Evening

He should have been able to catch her. She had never been athletic, finding even the act of walking up the two flights of stairs to their little apartment to be a challenge for her frail body. Fred had never had that problem, sometimes even carrying Barbara up the stairs if she felt too tired to do so herself. And, plus, if the previous experience was anything to go by, he definitely had enough physical strength to not only catch up to her, but restrain her as well.

And yet, when she fumbled down the stairs, her breath caught in her throat, eyes wide in horror, too-tight braids flopping loosely behind her, she could not hear anything from above. Their door had slammed once when she had thrown it open, but no more. When she emerged into the darkened courtyard of the apartment-complex they lived in, she turned around, and stared hesitantly at the door she had emerged from, expecting her half-crazed lover to emerge, with a wicked grin and a buzzing razor in hand, like some sort of monster from a horror movie. He didn't.

Peeking to the left, she gazed wearily at the window of their bedroom. She didn't like having to look away from the door, but… something told her he wouldn't be chasing after her. As strange as he had acted, he wasn't a monster. He couldn't be. Thinking back at what had just happened, Barbara couldn't help but shudder. What he had done, what he had said…

Did he truly only love her for her hair?...

She saw a shadow. It was Fred, it couldn't be anyone but him. The window creaked open, and she saw his face. She should have been scared, shouldn't she? But he didn't look scary. Not at all. He wasn't grinning, his eyes weren't flashing, his body wasn't looming, he just looked… sad. He was crying, there was no question of that. His hands propped his body upon the windowsill, his head and shoulders poking out of the window. He didn't say anything. The cool night breeze had caught his unkempt hair, and although this would usually cause him to have a minor barbers-fit, involving a comb being furiously brushed through it until the wind stopped, he now did nothing. Nothing beyond gazing longingly back at her, his eyes swimming in a sea of regret.

His gaze pleaded with her, requesting she return, promising he would do better. She didn't listen. Turning around, she ran away once more, leaving Fred looking longingly at her vanishing back. Why didn't she listen? He knew he had done something nau-, God, something wrong-, but-... it was still forgivable, wasn't it? He hadn't actually done anything bad, so… why had she ran away? Why had she hit him? God-, this is all his fault! He should never have thought he could partake in a relationship, much less with someone possessing such lovely endowments. Someone who wouldn't fail to make him act… like that.

Tears streamed down his face. He wanted to rip himself from staring out the window, but he couldn't. Even her shadow was gone, and yet… he simply couldn't. She would be alright, wouldn't she? It was dark out, yes, but she was an adult woman, wasn't she? He'd heard talks of a storm, but she'd be home before then, wouldn't she? If she got caught in the rain and caught a cold-, well, he wouldn't mind caring for her, she'd been so kind to him today, but her professors may be less forgiving… but, then again, what if she didn't come home?...

What if she just ran away to live with someone else and never talked with him ever again!? Would he be able to live with that?... He didn't know. He could barely remember what had happened after she hit him, but he could recall saying something quite disturbing. It may have been true, but disturbing nonetheless. God, his head felt so heavy…

...but, if he only loved her for her hair, how come his chest felt so empty? How come his heart ached at seeing her flee him? How come her absence made him feel oh so bad? He shook his head. He wouldn't allow it. After all, what kind of true-lover would do such a horrible thing to their love? He could barely remember a thing of what had actually happened, but… he could remember strangling her. His cold, stale fingers growing rigid and tense around her throat, urging, or, rather, forcing her into silence. She had just been so loud. He couldn't stand it. And she wouldn't listen to him. If she'd just kept quiet and let him do his thing, none of this would have-,

No. No, it wasn't her fault. It wasn't the victim's fault they were attacked. What had she even said? He couldn't remember. He could only feel the dull ache in his hand from having held her far too hard, his other hand tingling from the buzzing razor. His cheek felt red and sore and smelt of her. He wondered, if she had not hurt him, what would he have done? How far would he have gone? What would the result of that have been?

Fred felt sick at the mere thought of hurting her. And yet, he had. And then, he had tried to justify it by saying it was because he didn't love her. He was a disgusting person. A sad, pathetic man taking out his desires on the one person he sought to only protect.

His love.

Barbara.

How could she ever forgive him? He almost wished she wouldn't. That she'd run away and never look back and never think of him again and never have to be in his presence ever again. Then he wouldn't ever have the need to be nau-, bad. Then she wouldn't ever have to be in danger again. Atleast, not the kind of danger he presented. And still, the thought of never seeing her again was an oddly bad one. It made him feel bad. That wasn't how he actually wanted it. Rationally speaking, it was what she should do.

But he didn't want her to. He wanted her to come back, to stay, to let him caress her supple body, to let them join lips and hands and hearts and stay that way forever, and he would nevermore be that way. That was all he wanted. It was a childish dream, but… they had it that way before, didn't they? So why couldn't they be that way again?

It was a stupid idea, she knew that, but… this had been a stupid situation. No, not quite stupid. Terrifying was a more befitting word. She had been terrified, he had been terrifying, and the whole ordeal was just… well, terrifying. So there she was, wandering the city, dressed only in a nightgown, pretending to know where she was going. She really didn't. It was cold, and the sky was dark, and the moon was just barely peeking through the thick overcast, and the smell of rain was in the air, and…

And she wanted to go back. She wanted to go home. She wanted to burst into the apartment and hug him and kiss him and say she would never leave him again. But… what then?... would he say "of course" and hug her and kiss her and promise to never do such a thing again, or… would he bring out that buzzing razor, crush her windpipe and shave off all her hair?...

She didn't know. How could she possibly know? He was a madman, wasn't he? A hair-creaving maniac who would lash out against his lover and even go so far as to strangle her? That's what he was, right? But, then again… he was also a kind, soft-spoken and gentle man who always knew just the right thing and would never raise a hand to anyone and-, oh.

...Then again, this was clearly not something he had done because he was in the right mind. Sure, blaming everything on some sickness of the mind or other was not only clichéd, but also rather unethical. It was still him doing it, wasn't it? But, if that really was the case, that this all happened because something in him broke like some fragile china, wouldn't this be the moment where he needed her help the most? Her love?

She should return. It was either that or calling some sort of institution. Considering his focus had been on her hair, maybe that place just down the road-, "the Home for Freaky Barbers", was it? Yeah, that place. Oddly specific, but in this moment…

No. She couldn't.

How could she possibly watch her lover get dragged away in a straight-jacket to some sort of asylum, to become just another looney, stuffed in some padded white room like a head-banging lunatic? That would be even worse than if he did hurt her. After all, she did love him, didn't her? For better or worse, for richer or poorer.

A raindrop hit her forehead. She'd better head back, lest she get caught in whatever storm was coming on.

He knew he shouldn't. It was a terrible idea, stupid, even, but he couldn't just hang around and wait for her to come back home. He could smell the heavy scent of rain littering the air. He knew it was coming, and he still hadn't even seen her shadow. Quickly throwing on a shirt and suit jacket(maybe even a tie? He was so tense he couldn't really see what he was doing) he practically tumbled down the stairs.

The second he was out in the courtyard, he started calling for her, crying out "Barbara!" at every corner and every new road. He hurried down the main road, slinked down alleys, took turns he didn't know existed, all in hopes of finding his love. And, man, he had been right. The rain quickly came pouring down in little drops which soon turned into a roaring orchestra of smattering rain.

She heard him before she saw him. His voice was hoarse and tense, clearly desperate in trying to find her. Peeking her head out of a dead-end alleyway she had thought for sure was a shortcut, she quickly found him. He was still wearing his pajamas, but he had pulled on a white shirt and olive suit jacket to at least cover his top, a purple tie hanging loose and untied around his neck, although all of these, along with his hair, were absolutely soaked by this point, having a much darker colour than they usually would. Other than that…

He wasn't even wearing socks, much less shoes. His face was twisted into a grimace that perfectly reflected how his voice sounded: desperate and agonized, eyes darkened from crying. He had never looked so… pathetic. No matter what had happened earlier, Barbara could help but feel a wave of pity and love well up within her. She really shouldn't have, but with uncertain steps, her wooden shoes clicking wearily against the pavement, she approached the man.

At the familiar sound, his head spun around to face her. Had he not been so miserable, his face might have lit up in a smile, but at this moment, her emergence only allowed his eyes to lighten up, suddenly gaining life. Wordlessly, he threw himself at her small, pale form, his legs propelling his lanky body with inhuman speeds. Barbara felt her heart sink, her voice caught in her throat, uncertainty tugging at her feet, urging her to turn around and run from this monstrous beast that was coming to attack her, to strangle her, to rob her of her most prized possession.

But he didn't. The moment he came within reach of her, he fell to his knees, a loud sob caught in his throat as he clutched at the hem of her dress like a sinner to a priest. A silence reigned, and for a moment, everything was still. The rain didn't fall, the moon didn't shine, and neither breathed. The only sound to be heard was the soft, rhythmic sobs of Fred as he buried his face into her skirt, his tears minging with the rain.

A hand fell upon his shoulder. He looked up. There was her face - as angelic and forgiving as the holy Mary herself, as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't done anything, as if all his sins were forgiven. But that couldn't be. He wasn't worthy of that, was he? He had done things worthy of hate and scorn at the least and institutionalization and imprisonment at the most. He almost wanted the ladder. But, no. The way she looked at him…

Leaning down, his love stretched out her fair ivory arms, and he flinched. What was she doing? Was she going to hit him again? Strangle him, as he did her? No, not that either. She placed her delicate little hands in his, and without a word, he gripped them. Slowly, cautiously, he let his large hands enshroud hers, joining together without even a single word spoken. He stared up at her blankly, her fawning eyes mingling with his, telling him that everything was alright now.

Tears welled up in his eyes once more, barely noticeable due to the rain, but she saw them. Leaning in, she looked deep within his evergreen eyes, seeing the sorrow, the remorse, the regret, all those little things flooding his soul and threatening to drown him in a murky sea of bitter loneliness, and she kissed him, their lips mingling for but a moment there in the pouring rain, their love no longer a question, all sins forgiven, all wounds healed.

The moment was soon over, their lips parting once more. His hands still in hers, she gripped them back, and pulled him to his feet. Standing up, Fred realized just how small Barbara was. Short, pale, fair, dainty, thin… and around her little ivory neck, a red bruise in the shape of a hand was already starting to form. It was so… real. Looking down at his hands, still gently clutching hers, he felt that he did not deserve to hold them. He did not deserve to be on the receiving end of such a forgiving smile, such fawning eyes.

"It's alright," she said softly. Their gazes met. So she really did forgive him, then? But… why? What could he possibly have done to deserve this? Immersed in his cloudy thoughts, Fred failed to notice how Barbara took a step, her hands easily twisting themselves out of his, and embraced him, her thin arms throwing themselves around his midsection. He hesitantly returned the gesture. Her back was soaking wet. His must be too, he mused to himself. He felt her pat his drenched back a few times before looking up at him, a slight smile decorating her flushed face. "You ready to go home now?" she asked gently. Fred smiled slightly and nodded.

Barbara slowly removed her arms from around her tall lover, making sure he wouldn't take it the wrong way. Finally, she beamed up at him, and he smiled cautiously back at her, as if his smiling would rouse some sort of demon within him to wake. It wouldn't. Smiling could never do such a thing to him. Being happy would never do that.

"Atchoo!" Barbara sneezed, her face getting even more flushed. Fred quickly placed the back of his hand on her forehead. Yup, that's a fever. Fred nodded to himself. "Wait-, no-, I'm not-," his fiercely blushing love stammered defensively, but it was too late. With a quick bend to the knees and a well-trained movement, Fred swept Barbara into his arms, holding her in a little princess carry. He could hear her stammering angry treats at him within his arms, but there clearly wasn't any actual anger behind them. With a smug grin, Fred leaned in close to her face and kissed her on the lips, forcing her into silence. But it was a good kind of silence.

When he leaned back away, she looked away shyly. "Now you'll get sick too…" she mumbled, her brows furrowing in worry. Fred chuckled. "It's worth it," he replied confidently as he leaned back in and gave her a peck on the forehead. She blushed once more, but smiled still.

Fred, upon realizing that the rain would not, in fact, stop because he stood up, started running through the rain to get them back home before he actually did get sick as well. He really wasn't wearing any socks, was he?

His bare feet smattered onto the wet pavement as he practically sprinted home, his shy love clinging onto his unbuttoned shirt and pajamas tightly. Running without shoes on through the thunder and rain really shouldn't have been as easy as it was, but if you were carrying your love in your arms, such feats were but a flick of the wrist. And as such, within mere minutes, he was already standing in the courtyard in front of the door leading to the stairs leading to the apartment, wondering how in the heck he was going to get it open without using his arms.

Without needing a word of encouragement, Barbara removed one arm from around his broad chest, leaned back a little, and opened the door. Turning her face a little, she smiled a wide smile at Fred, who couldn't help but smile back at her. Such a sweetheart. "I should get down, you really don't have to-, ooumpf!" Barbara suggested, before being held tightly, and carried up the stairs with all the grace of a hippo in flight. Barbara repeated the motion from before to quickly open the door(apparently, someone had forgotten to lock it after them when they went running into the rain), and Fred entered, still carrying her like a soaking wet bride.

Once inside the apartment, Barbara started struggling in an attempt to be released, however, Fred would not yield. Still carrying her, he made his way through the apartment, until he finally entered their shared bedroom, where he gingerly placed her on the soft, warm mattress he had persistently occupied only a few hours before.

She made to get up, but he forced her down with a little kiss and a hand on her shoulder. She seemed a tad bit confused, but allowed herself to be pushed back down, not attempting to get up when he leaned back up. "You just sit tight and I'll whip us up something edible, alright?" Fred offered with a smile. Barbara, flustered, could only nod in response. Fred chuckled and made to leave the room, but quickly threw a blanket over her before doing so. It would seem that the tables had been turned.

It took only a few short minutes for a heavenly aroma to spill into the bedroom, a soft sizzling accompanying it. God, that man sure knew how to cook. It was actually sort of unbelievable how good he was. It was almost as if he had grown up in a kitchen or something, the way he cooked. It made her cooking obsolete, as if as long as she stayed with him, she wouldn't ever need to learn how to cook. But, then again, after today… a wave of horror loomed over her. No, she shouldn't think of it. Couldn't. She would have to confront him about it, they couldn't just ignore it, but…

She really didn't want to. It was terrifying. What if he had another episode like… that? What if he got even more depressed than he was this morning?... she dreaded the thought. He seemed alright now, but, then again… he had seemed alright yesterday too. Appearances can be deceiving.

The clattering of cups and pans quickly faded, and soon enough, Fred emerged into the room, wearing a frilly little apron, holding a tray of food for the both of them. It was pasta, much like this lunch, but, unlike that, this actually smelled heavenly, having the appearance and consistency of actual pasta and not gelatin, as hers had. He carefully set the tray down on the bed and grabbed a chair to sit next to her without having to sit in the bed. It would seem eating in bed stirred up some unpleasant memories.

Barbara glanced between the food and her lover wearily. They had to talk, didn't they? But how would she even start such a conversation?... Fred had already gotten started on his pasta, which seemed to be spaghetti carbonara, and not eating would be rude, so… She took a few bites. It was really good. Warming, soothing and with a smooth texture that calmed the heart. Barbara couldn't help but take a few more quick bites, just to warm up her cold, sore body. It was very effective.

But then she put down her fork. It clinked softly against the wooden tray, grabbing Fred's attention. He looked up from his plate, still chewing his food, looking a bit confused. Her eyes met his, hers a steely blue, his a grassy green. He hastily swallowed his food. "...What's wrong?" he asked, his eyebrows scrunched together in worry. Barbara frowned and looked down. "...We should talk," she replied, barely able to keep her voice from trembling.

Fred slowly put down his fork. Talk? What was there to talk about? Wasn't everything fine now? "I don't want something like that to happen ever again," she said softly, her voice low and muted. Oh. That. Her dainty little ivory hands slithered and clenched around a lock of loose hair that had escaped from the braid. "This hair… I don't think I ever told you, but… it's my one memento of my mother," she admitted, looking almost guilty. Why was she ashamed? Withholding something like that isn't bad. It's withholding something like this that can really get you in trouble. "I would rather lose an arm than a lock of this hair," she stated sternly, her eyes turning fierce and protective as they glanced at him. Fred shuttered.

"If you ever do something… something like that again, I'll…" Barbara cut herself off, looking off at the window where the heavy raindrops were yet smittering and smattering against it. She seemed hesitant. Unwilling to admit what she was ready to do. "I won't just leave you, I'll… I'll find you some home or other, and…" She bit her lip. Fred stared blank-faced at her, abstaining from reacting until she had finally admitted and said all she needed to say. She sighed. A deep, troubled sigh. "I'll have you institutionalized." Institutionalized? He? No. He could get a bit n-, strange at times, but… Never enough to warrant something like that, right? He wasn't some raving lunatic, shouting about how the world was about to end because they actually elected Nixon, was he?

However, just as Fred was about to object, she held up her hand, urging him to silence. Fred complied. "I know what you want to say and-, I agree, I really do! But-, if you can't control yourself…" she let the silence finish the sentence. Fred nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. "...I got it," Fred answered. He did. He would never hurt her ever again. If he ever did, no matter what she did, he may never forgive himself.

They silently finished their dinner. It was delicious, it really was. He knew how to cook, that was for sure. But… had he really understood her words? How could she be sure she wouldn't wake up one morning, her head shaved bare? How could she possibly know he truly loved her for… her?

Barbara got out of bed and the two brought their dishes into the kitchen where they washed them together by hand. Barbara dried them and Fred scrubbed them out. It was a simple coexistence, but they enjoyed it. They really ought to get a dishwasher, but those were damn expensive, and, well… this wasn't so bad.

Fred seemed worried about something. He was frowning slightly, and although Barbara could hypothesize that this was because of what she had said earlier, there seemed to be something else bothering him. She wanted to ask him, but it might be that he just needed some time to digest their new existence, but… there was one more question.

"Was it true?" she asked in a hushed tone, almost like a mumble. "Huh?" Fred asked, his head whipping around to face her. "What you said before-, that… that you only love me for my hair?..." Barbara continued, her voice still low and uncertain. She glanced up at Fred, her blue eyes murky with fear and doubt. He looked as if someone had branded his neck with a red-hot iron rod. His face was twisted in agony of a kind no words could express.

The plate he was holding dropped into the sink with a loud crash, shattering upon impact. "Wa-," Barbara stammered at the sudden noise, before suddenly being silenced by her large lover throwing his arms around her petite frame, his hands desperately clutching at the back of her dress, his head buried in her shoulder. "Oh, God, no, no, it wasn't," he said, tears already starting to wet her shoulder. Was that true? Yes, of course it was. of course he told the truth. How could he possibly lie to someone who had forgiven him of such an unforgivable sin?

Her hands fell softly on his back. "God, I love you, how could I possibly not do? You've been so good to me and I-, God, how can you forgive me so easily?..." Fred mumbled into her shoulder, mostly to himself. Barbara patted him on the back. Could this really be the same man who had almost strangled her into unconsciousness mere hours earlier? No, this was the true him, that man earlier… was something else. That infernal beast didn't love her, but, this man… he did.

Just thinking back on it made her far-too-tight braids ache. She couldn't sleep with them like this, could she? But, then again, asking this man in her arms to do it… It would be stupid. Foolish. Crazy, even! And yet… It would give him a chance to, well… redeem himself. Going by what he was mumbling at this very moment, his self-esteem wasn't exactly on top. In fact, he sounded just about ready to give up barbering all together and get himself institutionalized! Which, despite all that had happened, Barbara really didn't want.

"...Hey," she said to the unresponsive frantically mumbling man in her arms. He didn't respond. She shook him a little, nothing. Sighing internally, she grabbed his shoulders firmly and removed him from her. This would normally have been quite impossible, but he seemed to get what she was trying to do and let himself be unattached. He seemed quite confused when she stared into his eyes with a burning gaze.

"I'll let you brush and braid my hair. I trust you," she stated stoically, her chest puffed out. What was she saying?... Sure, her hair was all wet and a lot of it was poking out in weird ways, but… How could she possibly entrust him with her hair?... didn't she say it was her most prized possession?... What if he had another episode? What if she couldn't stop him this time?

The mere thought terrified him to no ends. He didn't want to lose her. Especially not because of himself. "I couldn't-," Fred began in an attempt to dissuade her, however, a finger was quickly placed over his mouth. "I wasn't asking," she stated bluntly, unable to keep her lips from curling up just slightly to reveal a smirk. But, despite her seeming confidence in him, Fred couldn't help but doubt himself.

She had to practically drag him back to their little barber's corner. She couldn't pretend the place hadn't instilled a certain sort of conditional fear, but this was the only place they could do this. She was hesitant to sit down, and she could clearly see Fred was unwilling to place himself behind her, but… he had to. She liked it when he touched her hair, when he combed it like only he could, and braided it for her without a word of complaint. It was nice. It made her feel safe and secure and loved. She didn't want to lose that.

"Come on, go ahead. They hurt, so… someone has to do it, right?" she urged Fred, who was still standing beside her instead of behind her, seemingly unwilling to move. "B-, but-," he stammered, a meek resistance. Barbara smiled soothingly and nodded to the space behind her. Fred gulped and moved behind her. Her (fair)hair had dried somewhat but was still quite wet even after all was said and done, and the braids really were too tight. That couldn't be pleasant.

Without really thinking about it, he squatted down and started loosening the bow on her left braid. And he would have finished it too, if he didn't hear Barbara whimper from above at having her hair be pulled at, even if only slightly. Fred shot up standing the second he heard it, going as straight as a rimrod out of fear. "N-, no, I'm alright, I was just a bit surprised," she explained, a wry smile twisting her lips slightly. Fred looked at her with worry in his gaze, unwilling to continue if it meant hurting her in any way. She simply waved her hand for him to continue. If he didn't undo them, she'd just be in more pain, so…

Slowly, Fred squatted down once more, far more self-conscious this time, and untied the first bow. The pink, silken piece of cloth was absolutely soaked, and Fred quickly placed it on the cupboards next to the stool Barbara was seated upon. Then, he carefully un-braided the long locks, making sure that he wasn't too rough or hasty. Barbara would shudder every now and then, but other than that, he was able to untie the whole thing without any major setbacks.

Wet hair was quite different from dry hair. You had to care for it more; you couldn't just cut it and be done with it, you had to take care of it, let it dry, let it come into being naturally. There was something so soothing about taking care of it, like handling grapes. You know they can one day become something truly special, but even now, as they were, they were still delicious. Deliciously nau-, no! God, no, what was he thinking?! Fred clenched his eyes shut. He had to keep it out, that deliciously tempting hair-, this was all, he couldn't possibly-,

There was a warm feeling on his lips, like the soft beating of a Pixie's wings. All the strange feelings, all the doubts and unwanted needs were suddenly gone, his mind clear and focused. Slowly, Fred opened his eyes, only to be met with the sapphire-blue eyes of his beloved, her pale face framed by her weathen locks. Fred was surprised, confused, even, before Barbara, noticing his gaze, leaned back out. "All better now?..." she asked shyly, blushing slightly. Fred gulped and nodded. "Th-, thank you, I…" Fred began, but Barbara put her finger to her lips, smiled a queer little smile, and turned back around, giving a little wave to tell him to continue. He did.

Gently, as gently as only a man undoing his past mistakes can, he loosened the other bow, unbraided her braid, and removed the final bow at the top, the wet hair finally hanging all loose. Fred made to step away from the hair, but Barbara stopped him. "You're not done, are you?" she asked rhetorically, a hand on his forearm keeping him in place. "I-," Fred tried, but quickly realized he wasn't going anywhere. Sighing, he opened up one of the drawers, and pulled out his ivory comb for the second time that day.

Could he really do this? The little bone-white comb glinted mischievously at him in the dim light. He wanted to. He needed to. She wanted him to. She needed him to. But should he? Her hair was all knotty and lumped up and wet and it needed to be combed, it needed to be right, but was he really the right one for the job? He glanced over her thin shoulder at her thin weary face and her thin worried lips. He didn't know if he was, he couldn't, but… she wanted him to be. So he would be.

Nicely, oh so very nicely, he started combing her hair, every little lump, every little imperfection, reliving what had happened earlier that day, with the small difference being that this time, he did not listen to the calm cooing of the comb, the wispy whisperings of the scissors, the knowing urgings of the razor. He kept it all out. He focused on simply getting the work done, and whenever he felt his mind being overwrought with thoughts of hairhairhairhair, he leaned forward, brushed away the hair, and gave her a soft kiss on the neck.

He was clearly struggling. At times, his breathing would grow heavy, and in a desperate attempt to quell whatever manic thoughts were bubbling up in his frantic mind, he would rely on his love for her, for her alone, not her hair, never her hair, and that would do. It would calm him, and it would calm her. Eventually, as he combed her hair, gently, as gently as he possibly could, she felt so at ease that a natural melody came to her, and her vocal cords sprung to life on their own. It was but the slightest hum at first, but as his careful combing went further and further down her long locks, she allowed the melody to grow in strength, finally erupting into a full-blown song she didn't know she knew. She couldn't understand what she was singing, but it was pleasant, and it seemed to calm Fred down, as his need to show his affection for her decreased with every verse, every chorus.

It was something about a poor farmhand, working every day and going to the pub to drink and fight and have fun with girls on Saturdays and sleeping in on Sundays, never going to church, and when he stands before God by the gates of heaven, expecting punishment, he is instead met with praise at how hard he's worked, instead of scorn at how he sinned. He's then given a garb of whitest white, and allowed into heaven. Jesus did forgive us of our sins, after all. Something about that song made Barbara feel so at ease she barely even noticed the tears welling up in her bird-blue eyes. But it wasn't bad tears, not those sad and scared ones she'd shed all day, no, these were good ones, ones that made her heart flutter like it had all those months ago when she first met this man combing her hair behind her.

He, in his own right, felt the same. His heart beat fast, his cheeks were flustered, his face was adorned with a serene little smile, and he felt good. He felt in love. He felt like he was surrounded by fluffy, heavenly clouds of the most golden blonde hair he could think of, the kind that simply must adorn God's Own divine head, the kind that made him feel all good and tingly inside. The kind that made him think of Barbara, his dear, his love, his flame.

Running his hands through her damp hair, he gleefully found it to be as smooth and soft as silk. Instinctively, he grabbed for a blowdryer, and plugged it in. He noticed sadly how her body jerked at the action and her head spun around to make sure it wasn't what she thought it was. To make sure he would going to be like that again. Fred's heart sank. She didn't trust him. Would she ever trust him again? No, but she trusted him now, didn't she? She trusted him to care for her hair, didn't she? She said so herself, right? So why was she looking at him as if he was about to be naughty?

Maybe… maybe because that was what he was about to be? Maybe he wasn't holding a blow-dryer at all, maybe he was holding an electric razor? Maybe she wasn't even looking at him at all, maybe he was strangling her, maybe she had already passed out, maybe she was already dea-,

No.

Far from impossible, such an event was inconceivable. Fred shook the thought off of him, his left hand, the one not holding the blow-dryer, flew up to cup the left half of his face. He gasped for air. Had this room always been so stuffy? He felt something grab his left hand and then his right cheek. He looked up. Had her face always been this pretty? She leaned in and her lips planted themselves onto his. Had her lips always been this soft? She smiled at him. Had her smile always been this… loving?

She batted her buttery eyes at him. Then she sat back on the stool, her back facing him. She trusted him. He wanted to question her trust. He wanted to ask, "what have I done to deserve such trust?" "if anything, haven't I earned your distrust? Your doubt?" but, then again… it was her trust. How could he possibly question his lover, his saviour, in where she decided to place her trust?

Leaning in closer to his lover, he raised the hand holding the blow-drying, and pointed it at her hair. It didn't take long, he knew how to use a blow-dryer as it was supposed to be used, but if felt as if it took forever. Lifting the heavy strands of her hair, letting his fingers run through it, making sure the warm air got every single little strand of hair, not missing a single one… it was a tedious process, albeit an enjoyable one.

And, finally, it was done. Her hair was a dry, lucious waterfall of glossy locks, shimmering and shining like strands of pure moonlight. Fred couldn't help but feel a certain kind of pride well up inside him, puffing out his chest and making him hold his chin high. It wasn't the kind of pride that made him ashamed, the one that he'd rather he didn't feel, no, this pride was of a lovely kind. The kind that made him want to protect this woman and her gorgeous hair, to make sure this hair remained as long and beautiful and shimmery shining as it was.

The pride of a lover.

But he wasn't quite done, was he? No, if she went to bed like this, she'd wake up with her hair all in a twist like she had this morning. And we couldn't have that, could we? Rummaging through his specially designated drawers, he quickly fished out two pairs of dark-blue bows. He ran his hands through her hair. Silky smooth, truly. What better (wife)material could he possibly find?

Easily parting her long hair into to distinct halves, he tied one half up with one of the bows, and started braiding. He didn't hurry. He didn't braid it tightly. He spent just as much time on every little thing as he needed to. And within mere minutes, the braid had been completed. It was quite loose and rough, meaning it would likely come loose sometime during the night, that was alright though, he could just fix it tomorrow. It was more important that she slept good than it was that it didn't come loose.

Grabbing her shoulders, Fred spun her and the stool she sat on right around to face him. She smiled at him skyly. "Do I look good?" she asked, her voice broad and filled with pride. Pride that her doubts had been washed away and all her trust had been reinvigorated, proven true by the man she trusted and loved. Fred smiled back. "Of course you do, my love," he replied simply, a calm, relaxed smile glowing naturally on his lips.

He had really done it. She'd had her doubts, she'd been ready to run at a moments notice, but he… he really did it. A pride of an unusual kind puffed out her chest. A lover's pride, if you will. She was just about to stand up when a gentle kiss planted itself on her forehead, urging her to sit back once more. She complied, and watched curiously as her flame twirled around to face their gramophone. Leaning down, he opened up the little cupboard keeping all their little darling LP-albums. They had rather similar tastes in music, both liking the rather popular swing and jazz types, however, Fred had always been into the slower and more melodic waltzes and blues, despite being extremely talented at dancing, whilst Barbara, despite having the vocal talents of a bluebird, always found quicker, more bodily styles of music such as twist and jitterbugg to be more to her liking.

And, since they so enjoyed music that the other could truly perform to, they very much enjoyed simply watching the other singing or dancing to music they enjoyed. Actually doing things together… Barbara shuddered, recalling that one time Fred had tried to teach her foxtrot. Her voice may be well tuned and trained, but her feet… not so much. She'd stumbled and fallen and stepped on his feet and danced them into a corner(she just had to lead, for some reason she couldn't remember) and… well, she just wasn't any good at dancing, as simple as that.

So, why had he put on her favourite song, "It Don't Mean a Thing if it 'ain't got that Swing" with Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington? Why was he looking at her all expectaly like that? And, most importantly, why was he holding out his hand like that? She wasn't going to have to dance, was she?... after today, her heart simply wasn't ready! "No-, I-, I simply couldn't-" she tried, but Fred had already sighed, shrugged and grabbed her hand, and without being able to mutter another word of denial, she was in his arms, her hands in his, her heart in her throat, fluttering through the air like an autumn leaf caught in an autumn storm, powerless to stop.

The music was fast, Ella's voice was soft and buttery, Fred was quick on his feet, and everything happened so quickly Barbara failed to notice how her feet had started to move along with his, somehow keeping up with his tempo, and despite the adrenaline rushing to her head, despite all that had happened today, it felt good. Everything happened so quickly she barely even noticed when the song changed to Frank Sinatra's "That's Life" and Fred slowed down their pace to only a fraction of what it had been mere moments previous.

Barbara looked up to face her lover. His lazy green eyes were closed, his body moving on it's own, his head obviously all caught up in the music. She had an idea. First, she made him place his left hand on her hip instead of where it had been around her right hand. He peeked an eye open, but at seeing the mischievous mouse-like grin adorning her pearl face, he closed it once more, chuckling a little at how sneaky she thought she was being. Because of this, he didn't object when she made him place his other hand on her shoulder.

Her hands shot out like bloodthirsty cobras, slithering their way through his arms, up his chest, over his neck, to finally plant themselves on either side of his cheeks, squishing them slightly. And before he could even squeak in protest or open his eyes to take a little looksie at what she was doing, her face was close and near, her rose-tinted breath mingling with his, and for a second, neither were looking at each other, both pairs of eyes closed, and despite not being able to even so much as see each other, they had never felt closer than that very moment.

Fred leaned down a little, and-, there they were. Her delicious little puffy raspberry lips met his, and they shared a kiss, their bodies still in movement, the smooth, almost unnoticeable voice of Chet Baker singing "Almost Blue" as a soundtrack to their love. Their passionate, true love.

For a few minutes more, they simply danced, slowly moving to the music, whether it be a slow waltz or a fast bugg, their eyes interlocked in a mutual, wordless wonder. At times, Barbara would twirl herself out of his arms to join the singer in their song, fluttering about like an unhindered bluebird when ever she had the chance. At times, Fred would reveal that he did actually know how to tap-dance by putting on his tap-dancing shoes and giving a little solo. Barbara would cat-call and cheer enthusiastically, all to Fred's great embarrassment.

But all days, as weird and pleasant as they may be, must come to and end. And, eventually, the two simply sat on the floor, their foreheads beady with sweat, smiles on their faces, simply looking at each other, glad to be alive. Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons sang their great tune "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" in the background, and the two young lovers couldn't help but snicker at the accuracy.

Picking themselves up off the floor, they finally turned off the music, got everything back in order, and headed to their chambers. Barbara, exhausted out of her mind, quickly hopped into bed, sighing deeply at finally being able to take a breather. "I'll be right there," Fred said, excusing himself from the bedroom. Hm. Curious. What could there possibly be left to do? The kitchen was all cleaned up, all their vinyls were back in place, and nothing littered the barber's corner.

There was a small clattering in the kitchen, and after a few minutes, fred returned, holding two steaming cups. Handing one of them to Barbara, she noticed it was a warm cup of milk, an inviting, sweet-as-honey aroma rising in great blots from the glimmering little red cup. She looked up at Fred, who smiled warmly as he got into bed as well.

They drank their milk, turned off the lights, went to sleep, and Fred was nevermore naughty.

Well, maybe not never…

~ Fin ~


	4. Night

Running. The darkness, swallowing, encompassing. From where? To where? Chased? Chasing? Couldn't know. Wouldn't know. Shouldn't know. Mustn't know.

Didn't want to know.

Rain; smattering, smittering, whipping, whining, hurting, hounding. Where was she? There she was! Lying down: why? Grinning… why? Broken wing, loose feathers, blue and red, "are you hurt?" "yes" "why?" crying. Weeping. Sorrow, sorrow. Reach for her-, wincing, agonized.

Blueberry eyes.

In hand: razor. Buzzing, biting, gnashing metal teeth, drooling. In his heart: hair. Hairhairhairhairhairhair-, no. Her? Warm. Pretty bluebird. Fluttering, quivering, adrift. Wings of sky, hair of cloud, wound of flesh. He would never hurt her. Why would he?

Hair dear fair

He was a naughty boy with naughty needs and naughty urges. He'd hurt his beloved, hadn't he? Breath caught in throat, hands filled with rubies, teeth grinding into a twisted smile. Wrong. He shouldn't smile. Look what he had done. Look what his lover had become. Tattered doll of stitched flesh, stuffed up with hairhairhairhair.

Wrong.

Curled up, sad, lonely. Only light, beeswax candle, dead, it's wick cut off. If he loved the light so, why would he cut off it's wick? Bad boy. You mustn't do that. Stand in the corner, daddy said, for you have been naughty.

Poor boy.

You hurt her, didn't you?

I never asked for a child like you.

What a malplaced smile.

I'd pity you if I didn't loathe you so.

Don't you see?

She's dead and there's nothing you can do about it.

Now do as your father said and stand in the corner.

You've been naughty my boy.

He awoke with a whimper, his body covered in cold sweat and goosebumps, an unearthly, mortal terror squeezing his heart with it's cold, dead fingers. His cat-green eyes darted about the room, his stress-filled system searching for a threat, yet finding nothing in the pitch-dark bedroom. He felt a warm weight atop his body. Looking down, he noticed Barbara thrown over him, slowly stirring awake.

Her blueberry eyes slowly blinked open, uncertain and drowsy, until they finally settled on the terrified form of her lover, whimpering and shivering like an abandoned puppy in the rain. Her paternal instincts kicked into high gear and all of a sudden she was fully awake, the miasma of drowsiness instantly blown away, as if it had never been there to begin with.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, worry and panic overtaking her voice and making it almost shrill. Fred didn't respond, his weary gaze instead dashing hither and fro, attempting to find some unseen threat or enemy darting through the darkness. "L-, love?..." she questioned hesitantly, suddenly becoming aware of just how pale and sweaty he was. He was obviously terrified beyond belief, despite there being no real, actual danger in sight.

"Fred?!" she exclaimed, fear finally gripping her as well. His eyes finally looked at something other than the darkness beyond the bed, but somehow, she really didn't like what she saw. His eyes were strangely diluted and unfocused, as if he was still asleep. Slowly, his dry lips parted, silently mouthing a word Barbara couldn't quite catch. Then he did it again. And again and again and again. And, finally, she could understand what he was saying.

"naughty"

Her heart skipped a beat. Oh God. Oh God no. Could she run? Did she have time to run? What would he do? What could he do? Was he about to attack her?

...No. That wasn't what this was. He didn't look like he did this afternoon. If anything, he looked as he had done this morning. Pathetic and afraid and sad and… and lonely. Leaving him here and now would only worsen whatever was wrong with him.

Steeling her heart, she crawled a bit further up his broad chest, until she was right next to him, and then... she reached out, gently oh so gently, and cupped his face in her hands. He stopped mouthing the word. His murky, evergreen eyes looked down at her. "Fred?..." she whispered, trying to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes. It was hard. His eyes started growing clear and focused, and when he looked at her, it seemed as if he was actually looking at her, not just staring in her general direction.

"M-, my love-," he mumbled, tears already welling up in his eyes. Barbara gingerly wiped away hers. "Did you have a nightmare, hubby?" she asked, smiling warmly at him. He seemed to be in deep thought for a moment, trying to recall what had just happened. A gleam of clarity shot through his eyes, and the tears that had already started falling got even more concentrated.

"Y-, yes…" he admitted, trying to wipe the tears from his cheeks, but instead coming to the realization that Barbara was still holding onto his face. "Oh-, I-," Barbara stammered, quickly recoiling her hands from his face, her cheeks lighting up in a little blush. Fred smiled slightly. Gosh, she was such a sweetheart. "It's alright, I'm-, I think I'm alright now-," Fred lied, smiling a wry little smile as the tears simply wouldn't stop. Why wouldn't they stop? He was alright, wasn't he? It was just a nightmare, he's had tons of those. Hell, his childhood was riddled with them! Then again, since he med Barbara he had never had a single one, so…

Why now?...

He could barely even remember what had happened! All he knew was that it was oh-so terrible. His blood ran cold at the mere thought of it. "...You're not," Barbara stated simply. "Huh?" Fred made a dumb sound. What was she saying? "I can tell you're not," she continued, seeming almost a little angry that he would lie to her. And why wouldn't she be? He'd never lied to her before, so why did he lie now? Why would he lie about being alright, of all things?

"What was the nightmare about?" she asked bluntly, obviously giving no room for denial or question. "I'm not sure-, it was-... it was just terrible and-, I…" Fred stammered as a response, unconsciously staring out into the darkness. "It was-, I was… I was chasing you, I think? And-, and you were… hurt, yes, you were bleeding, and I don't-, I don't know why? But-, but even though you were hurt, I didn't want to help you-, I-... I think I was the one who hurt you?..." Fred recollected, fresh tears streaming down his darkened face. He could barely stand to look at her.

She didn't speak a word, her silence instead urging him to continue. "And-, and then I-, daddy told me to st-, stand in the corner and mommy said I'd been a-, a bad boy, and… and then I woke up," Fred finished, his desperate gaze meeting hers. A strained silence enveloped the two. Neither seemed to know what to say.

But, eventually, Barbara looked down at the floor, as if wondering whether to say something or not. Finally, she made up her mind, and looking up at Fred with the most fetching eyes he'd ever seen, she asked him one little question. "...But it was a nightmare, wasn't it?..." she asked, gently, her bluebird eyes upturned and her lips as raspberry-red as they'd ever been.

He threw his arms around her. "Yes, oh God-, yes it was-, I would never-, I wouldn't even think-," he mumbled. "Shh, shh, it's alright, it's over now, I forgive you," Barbara cooed, her dainty little hands running over his back and through his hair, calming him down. He breathed a deep sigh and let them part ever so slightly.

He gave her a little peck on the nose, smiled a relieved smile, wiped his tears, and let himself drift off into a worriless, serene, and perfectly nice sleep.


End file.
